Asphyxiation
by BluStrawberri
Summary: Darkfic. Oneshot. VinTi. When he left, she broke into pieces. Now it’s up to Vincent to put her together again. Warning: Angst-ridden.


Hey, it's my first story here! Please, be kind to me! A little VinTi oneshot. Warning: Major angst.

* * *

It starts in waves, like the ocean tides falling and crashing and god knows _what_ else. A hiccup. Two. One. Two. Three. _That's it, breathe, just breathe._ But! No rest for the weary. And no calm waves to soothe her, to lull her into sleep like oh so many nights past. Nights spent thinking, watching, waiting. Waiting for what, she didn't know. Or, she pretended not to.

_He'll be here._ She told herself. Like all of the other times, whenever she was stuck, there he was, smiling that goofy smile and shrugging his shoulders. Scratching the back of his head. He would laugh, so carefree, so simple, and the world would look just a little bit brighter. And he would reach out his hand, and she would take it, and everything would be all right again.

But now it wasn't ever going to be. Not now, not later. Not ever. A million thoughts passed through her head, the paths they took well worn from travel. Footprints lined them up, down, and around again. Her mother had once said that everyone leaves footprints on your heart, whether good or bad, and you're never the same again. But these footprints are different. There are so many that she doesn't know which ones are hers, and which ones are his.

She looks out the window. The rain is pouring down in buckets, falling and splashing and making twirling paths down the dirty glass. She's forgotten how long she's stood there, staring out the window. Waiting for something, for anything. For that hand that always was so much bigger than hers, that always engulfed her tiny frame and seemed to overshadow it, whisking her troubles away. Made her forget.

Here. There. The sound of her breaths, in, out, in, out. She thinks she has forgotten how to breathe. How to take in a breath, and expel it with not too much force. Just enough light to breathe in, just enough pain to breathe out. In, out. Automatic.

But something had gone horribly wrong. Now, her pain is automatic. Her breaths, breathing in despair, and breathing out nothing. Just taking it in, and never releasing it. It chokes her, day by day, and she realizes just what a mess she is. Choking, breathing on goodbyes. His goodbye, the words had died on her throat. No _please, please, don't go I want you to stay don't leave me I just want you all to myself please please PLEASE!_ So many words, and they had just died on her throat. They surfaced a moment too late, a moment too far gone to take back. Calling out to the wind, to the memory of his back, which had been there just a moment ago. No whistle, no call. Just a simple word. "Cloud." And then it was over.

She doesn't remember when she stopped going to see her friends, her companions throughout it all as they went in, broke loose, and came back again, broke through again. A little worse for wear, but still alive. At least they all understood. Shared pain, even on different levels, begets a kind of simple understanding.

She doesn't remember when she stopped going outside, stopped listening to the voices of others. Stopped eating, stopped breathing, stopped caring. Her bones stick out, and her eyes look bloodshot and tired. But still, she continues to look out that window, waiting for something, for anything. For hope.

And she is left alone as the darkness consumes her.

* * *

She wakes up to a knocking sound. She startles, panicked. Since when did she fall asleep? Is her body _that_ weak? What if she missed him? What if he came, and knocked, and left because she wasn't there to greet him? She shook. It was all her damn fault for letting herself sleep. What if—

She was interrupted in her thought by the sound of a knock, louder and more urgent this time. She looked around. Checked to make sure everything was in place. She didn't care what she might look like, half starved and all bones. Hair wiry and flat, oily and ragged. Dressed in the same thing that she had worn when he…

A knocking. Damn. Stop it! Whoever it is should see that she doesn't want to be bothered! She looks to the window again.

A crash from the other room. She jumps, too surprised to breathe. Not that she did, anyway. Even a robot has to recharge somehow.

She hears footsteps, and hope wells within her. She listens carefully, to each creak of the floor as the silent intruder makes his way towards her room. She is too far gone in her illusion now, and she holds her breath. She opens her mouth. "…Cloud?"

It comes out as barely a squeak, like a machine that hasn't been oiled. Her voice is rough, crackly from sobs and cries that she knows won't come now. He is here, he is going to save her! Her hero, she knew he would come!

She turns just as the figure opens the door.

And stares into crimson eyes.

Just as quickly as it had come, the hope was gone, replaced with anger. How dare he pretend to be him! How _dare_ he trick her! This fool, this fool!

She opens her mouth. "Go away." It comes out faint, like a mouse. She had wanted to make it angrier, more intimidating, but she's just so tired. So, so tired.

So she looks away, not caring if he has left yet. She feels herself slowly falling, slowly retreating into the ever-present darkness. The last thing before her world goes black is the image of crimson eyes, and the slight scraping of something sharp on her back as they fade from view.

* * *

When she wakes, the crimson eyes are the first things she sees. They are still there. Watching. Waiting. She opens her mouth. "Am I still here?" comes out, more of a weak warble than anything.

The eyes close. She hears a sigh. "Yes."

That voice. She knows that voice, but she can't place it. If she placed it, then she would lose it, and it would get broken and lonely. Like her. No, that wouldn't do. Wouldn't do at all.

She realizes in the back of her mind that she is laying somewhere soft, somewhere not home. If it were home, then it wouldn't be so soft. So luxurious. So, if not home, then…

"Wh…" comes out. Her voice cracks. Her throat is raw, parched from one too many drinks and not enough water.

The eyes look at her, still unmoving. They come closer, and she feels something cold and hard being placed to her lips.

"Drink," the eyes command. She obeys, partly out of necessity and partly because she realizes all of a sudden that she doesn't want to disappoint those eyes. Those gorgeous, crimson eyes.

The liquid falls down her throat, and she feels a cooling sensation well up from the pit of her stomach. Not bad, per se. Not good, either. Just cold. A hunger rises up in her, and she takes the glass with shaky hands and gulps it down. She swallows wrong and coughs, spilling even more water down her mouth, her throat. Almost immediately, it is taken away from her. She frowns, wondering why the eyes would torture her like this. Are they…

"Slowly," the eyes tell her. And give her back the glass.

She stares, blinking slowly. She wonders why they would say this, but obeys anyway. She tries to ignore the thirst and drinks down the precious liquid slowly.

When she is finished, the eyes look at her, imploringly. She suddenly feels naked, exposed. She turns away. A shiver runs down her body, and she is hit with a sudden urge to throw up. Not that it would matter, with her stomach shriveled up. She briefly wonders if you can throw a stomach up.

"Tifa," comes the voice. That name…is it a name? It sounds so familiar… Ti-fa. Like a foreign word out of a foreign mouth. Mouth, she realizes. She looks again at the eyes.

Only now there is a mouth. Soft and cushiony, a mouth a shade off of pink. A mouth, the corners slightly turning down at the end. A mouth she should know, but doesn't.

"Tifa," the mouth says. It sighs. She looks at the eyes for guidance. They stare back at her, unmoving. She relays an unspoken question through her eyes.

"Ti-fa," her own mouth moves. The name sounds familiar. She rolls it on her tongue. "Tifa." She looks up at the eyes, who are waiting patiently for her, understandingly.

"Tifa," the voice comes again, more firmly and softly this time. She hasn't the time to wonder why when it hits her.

"Tifa!" she cries, a startled gasp. Tifa! That's _her_! That's her name!

A thousand and one memories flash by, and she rolls over and vomits. It is a dry-heave, however, and it hurts. She feels hands on her back, waiting for the waves to cease. Waiting for her to cry. But, she won't. Not this time. Her eyes have since dried up. Now memories come out of them, instead of wetness. They fall to the floor, invisible to everyone but her. She reaches for them, trying to take them back, to stuff them back in her brain. In her mind. But falls short.

Tifa. She is Tifa. Tifa is a part of AVALANCHE, part of a secret organization that wanted to hurt ShinRa, but then wanted to hurt Sephiroth, and then Jenova. Tifa, who helped save the world with a glove from a store and candy colored eyes. Tifa, a strong, independent woman that always is there to help a friend in need. Tifa, who would never let the love of her life leave her along to rot. Tifa.

Or, at least, she _should_ be. She _should_ be Tifa, and this _should_ be Cloud patting her back. Saying silently _there, there_ and _just let it out. I'm here._ Cloud. Tifa. Cloud and Tifa. No Cloud. Just Tifa. Poor, poor Tifa.

The clearing of a throat brings her from her reverie. She looks behind her, and is surprised to see that the eyes are only a part of the picture. With those handsome, wonderful eyes come a mouth, and a nose, and two cheeks and a forehead, wrapped in a red bandana. Black tresses hang down, and cover shoulders that are made up of a black fabric. Wait, no, that's not right. Red. There should be _red_ on those shoulders, not black!

And, as if waking from a dream, she is pulled to the surface. She gasps, taking a breath of…what? It's not pain, it's not torture. Not misery, or despair. She looks to her companion. "Vincent…?"

Her instinct says to run, run, _run far far away no one is safe trust no one_, but she finds herself too far gone to care, propelling herself into his arms.

Three things happen. One, she feels herself crying aloud, a desperate, aching cry. Two, his eyes widen, as if in momentary shock. Three, her weight makes him fall over, and then they are falling, falling down to the ground and down the rabbit hole.

He is stiff, grunting as they hit the floor. She doesn't care. It doesn't matter. She can cry enough for the both of them. Which she does.

She vaguely feels the scratching of his metal arm on her back as she leans into him and cries. Sobs wrack her tiny frame as all of the pain, all of the heartache, all of the guilt comes crashing out and lies there, on the floor, seeping into the cracks of the wood. Her heart lies in a mess on the floor, a decaying and rotten thing, and she stares abhorridly at it from the corner of her eyes.

He lays there, silent, his crimson eyes always watching, waiting. He watches as she sobs brokenly, as the sobs turn into cries, which turn into silent tears, then sniffles, then hiccups. Watches as she lays still, not daring to peek up at him, sure that he is going to reject her, to squash her faintly beating heart.

And a clawed hand reaches up, under her chin softly, lifting her head to meet crimson eyes. Startled, weary, but comforting crimson eyes. And it's then that she sees it.

There, hidden behind depths of walls, and shields, and masks, lies a pain. A pain so hurtful, it's almost pleasurable. A pain that you don't want to wake up from, that you learn to be with so much that when it is gone you invite it back. A pain so lonely, so fierce, that you forget what you were like without it. Who you were, what you did. What you even wanted to find, if anything. She has known that pain for so long, sought comfort in it so often, that she immediately recognizes it as being not unlike her own.

She sees the pain, in those eyes. Those hauntingly beautiful, crimson eyes. And she watches as slowly, inch by inch, his hand moves to pick up her still bleeding heart. He wipes the dirtiness away, and he holds it out for her to take. She looks into those eyes, and can feel herself reaching out to accept his gift. Hope fills her lungs, and she breathes in the scent of new beginnings.

* * *

Fin. Read and review, please!


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